


dollar shots

by distractionpie



Series: 2018 Rarepair Challenge [5]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Strip Club, First Meetings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 12:31:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14954753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distractionpie/pseuds/distractionpie
Summary: Working as the bar tender in a strip club means spending a lot of time getting overlooked in favour of the dancers. Usually.





	dollar shots

George had figured when he took the job that the shine would wear off working at a strip club pretty fast, he wasn’t naive after all, although he’d expected it’d last longer than till the lights came up at the end of his first night.

He’s used to it all by now though.

People come to places like this for the illusion, and once you become one of the men behind the curtain the magic fades away. It’s hard to get distracted by the dancers when he’s seen them arriving in sweats and hoodies, had them come use the mirror behind the bar to put makeup on because there’s too many of them crammed into the dressing room and Webster and Liebgott are bickering about eyeliner again, and poured them drinks as the end of the night as they mocked the patrons. The club is just his place of work. He’s learned to pick out every bottle behind the bar based on position because it’s hard to see the labels sometimes when there are strobe lights flashing; can read lips well enough to take drinks orders even when the music is at its loudest, pounding bass almost shaking the walls; got used to the fact that most of the patrons can’t pull their eyes from the stage long enough to look at him; and in the end, bar work is bar work and this job comes with the advantage of the fact that they kind of guys who are paying to be in a high-end strip joint are also the kind of guys who aren’t paying too much attention to if the bill they use to tip the guy making their drinks is a one or a hundred.

George works Tuesdays through Friday evenings, and on Saturdays when they’re open all day he takes the busier night-shift. It’s a good job, especially on nights like this Thursday, not dead but not slammed either, just a handful of the regulars milling about, a small group down at the front who barely look old enough to be in here (not that he doubts Johnny’s meticulous checking of their I.Ds before they got through the door).

And the bachelor party.

They don’t get a lot of bachelor parties. Bachelorette groups were there almost every night, but they didn’t have any regular female dancers and large groups of men who were interested in what they had to offer were rarer.

This group certainly was large though. There had to be at least a dozen of them, spread across three tables towards the left side of the stage. They’ve stuck to beer which makes George’s job easier, but they’ve also stuck to table service which means Frank is getting all the tips. He supposes it’s fair though, Frank is the one hauling pitcher after pitcher across the club after all.

George is mostly slacking off. He’s been mentally coming up with new drinks but he can’t try them out because there’s nobody other than him to drink them and while he has a lot more freedom here than previous places he’s worked, he’s fairly confident that getting drunk on the job will still be frowned upon.

People watching used to be how he occupied slow times on the job, but here it’s no fun because he doesn’t need to watch to know what the patrons are doing - they’re gawking at the dancers.

All that added up to the fact he startled a little when he heard a throat being cleared and realised there’s actually a guy leaning up against the bar and waiting to be served. Fuck. He was never gonna make good tips spacing out like that.

“Hey, what can I get you?” he asked, the words falling out of his mouth by habit as his brain is still re-engaging with the situation.

The guy smiled at him, hadn’t been waiting long for George to stop spacing out then, and then ordered a screwdriver.

George fought not to roll his eyes. Back when he’d been working in places that didn’t offer table service, let alone such appealing table service, he’d had been grateful for such a simple order that would take no time when he was slammed, but since it was the opposite of busy tonight he was just frustrated. If his wandering thoughts had to be interrupted it could at least be by something interesting or an invitation to creativity. Still, he poured out the vodka and then ducked down, pulling the orange juice from the fridge beneath the bar.

When George had first interviewed for this job he’d figured his odds were low because he didn’t have the sort of look one associated with a strip club, he wasn’t insecure by any means but he knew he wasn’t the kind of guy people tended to stop and look twice at either, but it turned out that had worked in his favour because the manager had outright said that he didn’t want bar staff who’d distract from the talent.

So far that had worked out quite well.

Now, he was being stared at.

Screwdriver guy was one of the ones from the bachelor party. Tall (and not just relative to George’s own diminutive stature), blonde, and blue-eyed, his gaze didn’t stray from George for even a moment as George prepared his drink.

“The show’s over there,” he pointed out as he slid the drink over but the guy didn’t even turn.

“Not my type,” he said, with a shake of his head, which... honestly George could understand. Some of their dancers had near universal appeal but while Gene was talented, the only thing that was stereotypical about him was that he’d picked up the job to fund med-school. Nobody who looked that good and moved like he did could not make good tips in this business, but Gene’s intensity and the seriousness which he couldn’t quite shake even when putting on a show weren’t necessarily suited the kind of easy good time most of their clientele were looking for.

“Fair enough,” he said. “Don’t get comfy though, Tab is on in a few minutes and everybody likes him.” Occasionally Bull had to head down and break things up when the guys jostling to be close to the stage during Tab’s performance pushed each other a little too hard, but things had never gotten bad enough for Tab to change up his daringly interactive routine.

“Not my type either,” the guy said, despite the fact it was still early evening and Tab hadn’t been out on the floor yet tonight for the guy to form an opinion of him. Perhaps he’d been before, but George knew all the regulars and he’d remember if he’d seen this guy around before.

“Well then;” George said,”What is your type?”

He wasn’t expecting the longer lingering look that came before the response. “I suppose I like people a little more… well, conversational.”

Oh. Oh well that was the kind of look and line that George usually overheard being addressed to the performers, not directed at him. However, while it was an entirely accurate summation of his character, it was total bullshit coming from this guy, with whom he’d shared three sentences. Still, his shift was dragging on. “Well, you’ve come to the right place for that then.”

“Good. Though I was wondering...” the guy continues, “When do you go on?”

George snorted. He couldn’t help it.

“Really?” he snickered. “Really? That’s your move?” George was an enthusiastic dancer but he was never a skilled one and anyway he didn’t have nearly the right sort of glamorous looks to be up on that stage - he was short and soft-bodied and couldn’t have looked alluring without laughing at himself for ten times the money the dancers were getting.

The guy took being laughed at in stride, like he’d known it wasn’t going to work instead of being mad that it failed. “A guy can dream, c’mon.”

“I’m not a dancer,” George explained.

The grin the guy shot him was dangerously charming. “So I have you all to myself?”

“I’m working the bar,” George pointed out.

The guy made a show of looking left and right, taking in the deserted stools on either side of him. “I see, in that case, what time do you get off?”

“That depends,” George said.

“On?”

“If you’re giving me a hand.”

The blond smirked. “Oh, I’ll give you so much more than a hand.”

**Author's Note:**

> I think when I first had this idea it was going to be March's rarepair fic but then it kept not working out for me. I'm not wholly satisfied with this version either but I needed something for July and I wanted to get this draft wrapped up one way or another.


End file.
